


The Phantom of Myself Lurks Behind My Mask

by cleopatraslibrary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Characters added as story progresses, Except no love triangle, M/M, Phantom of the Opera-esque AU, and the love is pure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 10:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleopatraslibrary/pseuds/cleopatraslibrary
Summary: Draco's cursed, his face seemingly destroyed forever. Is there a disguise for this disease of scars?





	The Phantom of Myself Lurks Behind My Mask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveglowsinthedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/gifts).



> I'm dedicating this to loveglowsinthedark because legit her writing was the only reason I was staying alive for a few weeks and also I love Them and appreciate them and want to give back in some way, even if it's through shitty writing. enjoy! I know I'm gonna have fun with this. I personally love the phantom of the opera and really relate to the phantom, minus the murdering and emotional manipulation, but I can really understand his character. please leave reviews and whatnot! I am Desperate to get better. thanks for reading y'all! (unedited and unbeta'd)

Merlin and Morgana, it burned.

The curse hit my cheek, and ice dripped through my veins, tearing and ripping and burning the blood. The curse pulsated, and I could feel my skin slice off in tiny, little pieces. I’d scream, but the curse stole my voice. It stole my mobility, too, and I fell forward on the ground, helpless and paralyzed. It traveled no farther down than my jaw, and no higher than my brows, the pain, but every place it touched, it morphed and desecrated.

In this state, I knew it was unwise to worry about my looks. But damn it all, that was all I had left in a world that spit on my name, and laughed at my misfortune.

The pain soon became so unbearable, I had not a thought to cross my mind. And when the curse reached my brain, I had not a chance to stay conscious. No flashes of a tall-tale hero, swooping in to save the day, nor the manic, pleased mockery of laughter to ring around the alley-way.

No, I only had fear to cradle my hopes.

-

Turns out, someone did care.

Enough to call St. Mungos, at least.

I woke up to the smell of white sage, and a hint of medicinal potions kept at a light brew next to my bed. I’d no contact with an actual person, yet, to tell me the intriguing details as to how I got here; however, they made a grave error in leaving charts behind on the chair next to my bed. It must have been a quick mistake made by a nurse, surely. I didn’t care. I only wanted my diagnosis.

I flipped through the pages, incredibly bored until I finally found my name written in a neat script.

Patient name: DRACO MALFOY

MALE Female

DOB: 5/6/80

CURRENT AGE: 23

OCCUPATION: Unknown

REASONS FOR ADMITTANCE: Located behind an alleyway, leading into Diagon Alley. Brought in by a woman who wished to remain anonymous. She reported signs of a struggle and turned in one (1) 16 inch, cedar wood wand with a phoenix feather core, and one (1) note, written by the alleged attacker (see attached).

Only slightly interested, I turned to the attached page. I snorted.

Now everyone can see how evil you are on the inside, Malfoy! Ready your mask, Death Eater scum!!!!

I went back to skimming my report.

DIAGNOSIS: Three separate SPELL DAMAGE Healers (with individual expertise on DARK, BLOOD, and MIND magic) have come to the same conclusion: they are unable to find anything cursing the patient. Any spell damage that might have hit the patient seems to have been lifted, even though there was a seemingly hostile attempt to harm [the patient]. The patient is currently sedated magically, but the stasis will be lifted at 0600.

DISCHARGE: Information not yet available; consultation with the patient first required.

My hand lifted to my cheek, where I remembered the freezing pain of a curse that hit me. Convulsively, I shuddered and skimmed over anything I may have missed. There was nothing.

I blinked a few times when a sudden bright light flooded the room. There, a Healer stood in the doorway, her face suddenly drained of blood as she held a hand to her mouth, and screamed.

-

The next time I woke up, my mother was sitting next to me, cradling my hand in hers. She was softly crying.

To say I was alarmed was putting it mildly.

“Mother?”

She said nothing; instead, she Conjured a mirror.

A distinct feeling of self-loathing surged within me before I fainted.

-

“I don't care.” My voice was cold and deceptively calm. “I don't care if this isn’t your department, or if you consider plastic surgery below your standards. I’ve enough money to pay you your yearly salary doubled, as long as you overlook this certain surgery!”

My voice raised. Blast my wretched weakness to Hell.

I turned and faced Healer Sanguine, even though she flinched and looked away from me. “You’re the best Spell Damage Healer in Great Britain, and I need there to be an expert in the surgery room in case something wrong happens. We have no idea if something is somehow protecting the damage sight or if something is keeping it from being repaired surgically; we don't need the repeat performance of when we tried Polyjuice and Glamours.”

Glamours melted away within seconds, and Polyjuice . . . the scarring only transferred to the person I was supposed to be turning into.

She blinked a few times, before turning back to me and looking me in the eyes. She held it for a few seconds but ultimately was unable to hold my gaze. No one was.

She nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, all right. There’s no need for ‘double my yearly salary,’ though I would like compensation.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief and nodded, though she couldn’t see me. “Yes, all right,” I repeated.

-

The plastic surgeon was thrown across the room by the magic concealed within my scar tissue. No blade would ever cut away the skin.

It was as unremovable as the Dark Mark on my arm.

-

I hiked the short walk to my tiny cottage in Wiltshire. It was a pleasant morning, the sun still low over the horizon. The crickets chirped boldly and without fright along the trail, and I took pleasure in their unprohibited happiness.

In the distance, I could still hear the bubbling stream I had just come from. I shifted the basket in my hand, and walked a little faster, hoping no one could see me from where I was. I know how the sun reflects on my hair, and it’d be a shame if someone finally found my spot.

The cobblestone path turned sparse. I strode up to my house, breathing out a sigh as the warm, welcoming magic cascaded around me, following me into the dark cabin.

Unhurriedly, I stripped myself of the black cloak, putting it on a hook near the front door. It practically disappeared against the black wall. I frowned and waved my wand, setting ablaze the candles in the silver sconces around the room. White loveseats and sofas were suddenly illuminated against the dark wood flooring, as was the shimmering, onyx table in the center of the room. A few feet away, the bright white fireplace stood proudly, the candelabras lighting ablaze as well. I contemplated going into the kitchen, and working at the bar, but decided against it. No, I’ll work comfortably my first time around.

I dropped my basket onto the table and sat heavily onto the closest loveseat. My feet had started to cramp and I hadn’t noticed. I flicked my wand again as I peeled off my damp boots and socks, and a roaring fire started in the hearth of the fireplace across from me. Another quick flick set them next to the fireplace to dry. I smiled gently to myself, before leaning forward, towards my new goodies.

Inside the basket lay a large chunk of natural clay. I had noticed it one evening, strolling next to the stream, and an idea had struck me. Carefully, I pulled it out and laid it on the table. I waved my wand, speaking a few different incantations of my own making, and pointed at the clay.

Nothing happened.

I concentrated my magical core, imagining a light lavender energy building within my mind, and focused on what I needed.

Moments or hours could have passed. I opened my eyes blearily, not remembering when I closed them and looked down hopefully.

It worked!

There, laid a mask. It wasn’t like a masquerade mask or a party mask, no; it had done exactly as my incantation had instructed. The mask started from the top of my right eyebrow, over half of my nose with a hole for where my nostril would be and was artfully hollowed and thinned, to cover my jaw. It would soon cover the entirety of the right side of my face if my spellwork went as planned.

Swallowing hard on a sudden lump in my throat, I Conjured a mirror. I ignored my need to vomit -- and the want to look away -- and instead, stared directly at the scar tissue that started under my eyes.

It was like the elasticity of my bottom lid had given way. The skin sagged under my eyes, pulling it down into crinkly wrinkles. The side of my nose was crushed and flattened, and slightly resembled the Dark Lord’s nose. The thought nauseated me further. I breathed heavily for a second, before continuing to let my eyes wander over my monstrosity.

At first glance, it looked like scars from a burn; with closer inspection, I can see the rise of black veins which distort my face so horribly. My gaze traces it alongside my eyes, too, up through my eyebrow, down the side of my nose, and then trailing hopelessly over the side of my jaw. I take a breath and hold up the mask.

I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything, but be helplessly happy that I can somehow cover this face. It fits perfectly. It’s symmetrical with the other side of my face, too. The cheek of the mask curves exactly how my other one does and the nose fills out exactly as it did before . . .

I think about coloring it in a way that matches my face but change my mind quickly. Not this one; perhaps, another one. This one . . . I want to be pure white.

I vanish the mirror and pull off the mask with a controlled ease. I gently place it on the table. As the morning sunlight begins to pour through the windows, I pull the drapes shut, and wander off to bed.

I’m content, for the first time in a year.

-

For a year, the only people I had interacted with had been Healers, my parents, and the two Aurors assigned to my case. Lydia Brownstone was a tough, old witch who took nothing but compliance and with a do or die attitude. Her partner, Eduardo Perez, was completely different. He was much younger and was much warmer.

That is, to everyone except me.

I didn’t care, either way, though I did like having the occasional contact with someone who wasn’t related to me or being paid by me. And both offered meaningful conversation, even if it could be tense.

Today was my first day venturing out.

I needed books more than anything. There was much the Malfoy library had to offer, but nothing that I could truly use. Much of the information was old, and this curse was new. Perez told me. Though I had been incredibly skeptical, he told me how newer spells usually had imperfections in them; he considered the black veins on my face to have been that imperfection.

“They most likely wanted to turn your blood into tar; nasty, that,” he’d said jovially. “Instead, they probably hit you with some sort of mixture of Incedio, Confringo, and a dye-ing spell.”

I had only shrugged at the time, but now, I really wanted to try to understand what they had done, and perhaps try to counteract it.

I dressed in a plain, muggle tuxedo, sans a tie. I carefully latched my black cloak around my neck, primping it poshly and smoothing it down over my frame. Then, with a practiced ease, I placed the white mask on my face, tying the delicate ribbon on the back of my head. I pulled my hair into a careless pony-tail, before slipping into my boots, and Apparating directly into Diagon Alley.

I kept my head down and walked the familiar streets, barely glancing up before I knew I was in front of Flourish and Blotts. I hurried inside and nodded silently to the person behind the counter before heading into the back bookshelves, where I remembered they kept their Cursing and Cursed books.

I read the book titles with interest: The Basics of Cursing, The Curse of Cursing, How To Jinx Your Jilted Lover, Why Jinxes Are Superior, How Unforgivable are the Unforgivables?, The Art of Crafting Curses and Counters, Curses Volume I, Curses Volume II, Curses Volume III, Curses Volume IV, Curse-Thy-Name-Curse-Thy-Body-But-Never-Curse-My-Mind, India’s Revenge Curse, Confusion Over Cursing? Try Confringo!, as well as other delightful titles.

I grabbed The Art of Crafting Curses and Counters, Curses Volume I, and Curse-Thy-Name-Curse-Thy-Body-But-Never-Curse-My-Mind (only out of interest), before walking up to the front. All sound like they should have some decent, relevant information, and I was looking forward to reading them.

I plopped them onto the counter and reached into my cloak for my Galleon purse. When I heard no response from the clerk or heard any movement, I looked up.

“What’re you in for, Malfoy?” His voice was snide and had a cruel tinge to it. I struggled not to flinch away from his bright blue gaze. His messy blond hair fell in front of his eyes before he shook it away annoyingly. He looked down at the books and laughed. “You think I’m going to sell you curse books?”

The blood drained from my face. I hadn’t realized the complications of me purchasing curse books . . .

“I can easily explain, sir,” I said politely. I was screaming on the inside.

“Oh yeah? And I can easily explain to the Aurors you were threatening to curse me. Still dawning the Death Eater mask, too. Damn, you must really miss You-Know-Who. You were probably his little plaything.”

I looked away as shame flooded my face with heat. He only laughed.

“Hey! Malfoy!”

Dread and only a tiny ounce of relief filled me at that voice. I turned. The clerk stopped laughing.

“Potter.”

“What’re you doing here?” His eyes, oh how green they are, wandered to mask, and he squinted, before looking directly at me again.

I blinked when his question registered. Is he truly that obtuse?

“ . . . Trying to buy books.”

“Trying?”

I looked back at the clerk, who started to ring up my books. I struggled to keep the smug look off my face. “There appears to no longer be an issue.”

The clerk glared at me fiercely before saying, “300 Galleons.”

Potter blinked, and I laughed outright, throwing it carelessly on the table. I grabbed the books, Shrinking them and putting them in my pockets. “Have a good day, sir. It was nice acquainting with you again, Po--”

I registered my head hitting the side of a bookshelf before actually feeling the pain in the back of my skull. A harsh wind blew on the right side of my face and a wretched, “No!” tore itself from my throat when the mask went flying off towards the clerk. My hands flew up to my cheek and jaw.

He was laughing, his hair shaking wildly, and I whimpered, not daring to move my hands from my face. Mortification and fear filled my entire being, as I screwed my eyes shut. I was close to tears.

I paid little attention to the escalated noise level, but immediately recognized the sound of a flashing camera and the terrified titters of women. I scrunched up my eyes further, terrified of the darkness, but petrified by the light.

It was silent once more.

“Malfoy.”

Potter’s voice was soft and gentle against my bruised nerves. I opened my eyes.

He was crouched in front of me, his hand outreached towards me. In his land laid my mask.

I swallowed and took it. Without another glance at him, I said a quiet, “Thank you,” before Apparating directly into my bed.

Only then, I allowed myself to cry.


End file.
